Page 11 of Tattooed Cowboy
I pack my bags, mind wandering to the disappointment that will pain Grandma and Grandpa’s faces when I tell them I’m leaving. But I can’t stay here a moment longer, not with my grip on reality slipping.
I sleep fitfully, tossing and turning, thinking up a thousand ways to say goodbye before I’ve really had the chance to make amends. And wondering how I’ll ever forgive myself for departing after that otherworldly kiss.
Finally, the worry fades away…
Blackness crowds like an inky pool. Stuck somewhere between dream and wakefulness, a vision wraps me tight. I stand at the bedroom window, curtains billowing and swirling as I look down. Maveryk lingers below, chest bare, tattoos pulsing and flickering, like some ancient language that shouldn’t exist. A memory I almost understand.
When I rise the next morning, everything is back in place. The way it should be. Sky unbroken blue, sun shining, mist enveloping the distant mountains as if they might be forgotten. No trace of the cowboy.
Had to be a dream.
But the curtains still stir. And the window—wide open—isn’t how I left it.
Outside, faint and low, the mountain reverberates.
Chapter
Four
MAVERYK
Dawn bleeds slow over the range, washing the world in gold and quiet.
I’ve been in the saddle since first light, hoping distance could drown what happened in the barn. It hasn’t.
The mountains vibrate under my skin, low and steady—the same note that thrummed through her mouth when I kissed her.
I tug a sprig from a nearby pine tree, crush it between my fingers. The resin bites my skin, masking the faint metallic tang that rises whenever that frequency gets too close.
But nothing can mask what I did.
Stupid. Reckless. Unforgivable.
Put Melody at risk. Myself. Perhaps, other Wildbloods. An echo of the purges washes through me—how we lost our identity, our technology, maybe even our souls, if the Sentinels’ stories are true.
The mark on my arm burns faintly, half-healed, half-alive. Every few minutes, it pulses, as if it remembers her touch. I flex my hand, willing it to stop.
The calf I patched last night follows its mother now, healthy as if it had never been torn open. I should feel pride. All I feel is fear.
The Sentinels would call it contamination.
A Wildblood’s light isn’t meant to answer a human’s.
But the resonance is stronger than rules, older than blood. It’s already inside me, circling like wildfire through dry timber.
Wind lifts dust across the valley floor. Each gust carries echoes—her laughter, the quick hitch of her breath, her heartbeat. I swear I can still smell her, lilacs, rain, and sin.
“Enough,” I mutter, pressing my knees to the mare’s sides. The horse moves, sure-footed and fast, hooves drumming the hard earth like a heartbeat trying to outrun itself.
I crest the ridge that separates my land from Martin’s. Below, the ranch lies quiet, the roof glinting with dew.
And there she is—on the porch, wrapped in a dusty rose quilt, watching the same sunrise. I can almost smell the scent of wet lilacs that rolled through the barn when our lips met. Like I couldn’t tell where the rain ended and she began.
Even from this distance, I feel the pull.
The hum spikes through my spine, sharp enough to steal my breath. For a heartbeat, I think the mountain is calling me home. Then I realize it’s her.
I turn the horse away before she can look up, but the echo stays—her pulse braided with mine, the song of the Starborn Range rising between us. I have to go, disappear beyond the north pasture. Winter over at the old herding cabin if that’s what it takes. Just long enough for the hum to fade. For her memory of me to evaporate.
